


Cathedral

by ArtisticRainey



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Bro Fights, Gen, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6944101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtisticRainey/pseuds/ArtisticRainey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Gordon's birthday and John is late - and not very apologetic. Explosions ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cathedral

They'd arranged to meet at Clementine's - more commonly known as the Orange Cafe amongst the at Tracy boys. Nestled in a city crook of the Brisbane River, it made for some beautiful views when the February sunlight sparkled on the water just right. Perfect for sipping a latte and rifling through bags of new purchases.

Gordon was in no mood for looking at pretty waves - or even pretty babes - at this stage. He turned his foot to one side; the paper packages containing his birthday shopping rustled. He looked at his watch. They had arranged to meet twenty-five minutes earlier but John still wasn't there. _Jackass_ , Gordon thought. _He said he wouldn't be late this time_. The day was not working out as he had hoped.

Yes, he had wanted to go birthday shopping. But he hadn't wanted to draw the short straw and have to pick up the Grinch at the same time. He hadn't wanted to wait for the better part of a half hour, sweltering in the Brisbane heat, waiting for the arrival of the self-same grump.

John had been off at the one of the GDF centres, working on some space defense thing that Gordon _really_ hadn't cared enough to listen to. And he was coming back just as Gordon was scheduled to take his shopping day. And Gordon could easily have knocked all of Scott's teeth out for suggesting-come- _ordering_ Gordon to pick their wayward space brother up - on Gordon's _birthday_.

Oh yes. _All_ of his teeth.

Huffing out a breath, he planted his hands on his hips. It had gone four-thirty and still no grumpus. _God dammit…_

Gordon brought his finger up to his ear - even in his irritated state, he was unable to completely suppress the _I-feel-like-a-super-spy_ feeling - and made a call. Not to his brothers; they would be equally clueless. No, to the one person - _thing_ \- that was sure to know.

"EOS," Gordon said, turning to face the cafe window behind him to make his words less conspicuous, "where's John?"

After a moment, that saccharine digital voice sounded through his earpiece.

"John Tracy is in Brisbane," EOS said.

"I _know_ that," Gordon snapped, rolling his eyes. "Where _specifically_ in Brisbane?"

He could almost hear her pout down the line and once more, Gordon cursed the day John saved the infernal digital creature. With no further information forthcoming, Gordon sighed and swallowed his pride.

"Please, EOS," he said, "would you tell me where specifically John is in Brisbane?"

Now all he could hear was her smugness.

"John is at the Cathedral of St. Stephen on Elizabeth Street," she said.

"A _cathedral_?" Gordon asked, turning back to face the swath of shoppers passing by once more. "What the heck is he doing there?"

"St. Stephen's Roman Catholic Cathedral is for religious worship," EOS said pragmatically.

Frustration rising again, Gordon jammed the earpiece further into his ear, as if that would help him get his meaning across to a computer whose understanding of emotion had been learned from a human who understood little emotion.

"I know that," he ground out. "That's not what I meant - ugh, you know what, I’m done. _Why_ am I even still talking to you?"

Cutting the comm. line, he bent to pluck up his bags.

"Alright Johnny," he said, "church or not, I'm about to kick your ass halfway to Jupiter and back."

 

**~oOo~**

 

It wasn't an inconsiderable walk to the cathedral and Gordon was halfway there before he considered taking the electrotram. However, stubborn as burnt-on lasagna stains, Gordon would not bow. By the time he reached St. Stephen's, he was ten times more hot and bothered than he had been before and was ready to blow.

The cathedral was flanked on both sides by palm trees and surrounded by towering skyscrapers. Even so, the brown-red Gothic Revival building seemed to make its own little oasis in the middle of the city. The bustle of the city seemed less here, the noise muffled by the force field of prayer all religious buildings seem to exude. Gordon was in no mind to take in the beauty, though. He stalked in.

Holy water flew in three directions as he threw his right hand around in a half-remembered cross, bags crashing through the silence of the nave. The last time he had been near a place of worship was back in Kansas, before they moved to the island. Just after their mother had died.

The cloying scent of incense hung heavily in the air. But the nave was lifted by the vaulted ceilings, stretching up and up, the fourteen pillars like outstretched fingers. The long windows welcomed in soft beams of light.

The chapel in Kansas hadn't been like that. It had been dark and cold and claustrophobic. It had been the place where his mother was in a box. It was the place he had realized she was never coming back.

In the soft silence of the cathedral, every crunch of his shopping sounded like glass shattering. Even in his frazzled state, Gordon still slowed down. There was something about churches and cathedrals that made him revert back to his elementary school days, learning about god and making up sins to tell the priest for his First Confession. He took a moment to look around.

There were only a few people inside. Most of those were sacristans or similar, wardens or choir masters or _whoever_. But up near the front, a solitary red head bobbed on the sea of empty wooden chairs _. What is he_ _doing_? Gordon thought. John wasn't kneeling or praying or anything. He was just _sitting_. Gordon's ire grew again and he stalked up the aisle.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed as he slid onto the empty chair beside his brother, bags crinkling and scraping against the kneeler hanging from the chair in front. "You were supposed to meet me so long ago it feels like last century!"

In his defense, John looked genuinely confused. His brows crinkled, puckering the light skin between his dark eyebrows. Light caught in his green eyes. For a moment, it was as if he did not know who Gordon was. But then reality struck like a hot iron.

"What?" he asked. "Gordon, it's only -" He looked at his watch. Then he let his wrist fall. "A lot later than I thought it was."

Reaching out to rap the top of his brother's thick skull, Gordon shook his head.

"Earth to Space Dork," he said. "How long have you been here?"

Jerking back from the knock to the head, John's frown turned into a scowl.

"Don’t do that," he snapped. "I don't know. Longer than I intended. Sorry."

Had there been even a hint of remorse in that simple word, Gordon might have let him off the hook. He might have relinquished his desire to reach out and shake his brother by the collar. But there wasn't. So he didn't.

And there was something about that, something about the tone, words spoken with such _arrogance_ , that made Gordon _snap_.

"What the _hell_ is your problem?"

He stood up. The chair scraped back on the tiled floor. The sound reverberated into the vaulted ceiling. John's eyes widened and he jerked back. Then he narrowed his eyes again.

He stayed in his seat. Gordon loomed down on him and yet he didn't feel superior. He felt small, as insignificant as he always did in the shadow of John the genius. He might as well have been John the Evangelist, for all their parents had lauded him. The scholar. The athlete. The _perfect_ son.

"What is _your_ problem?" John snapped back.

There were so many ways in which Gordon could have answered that question - and every single one of those ways was better than the choice he made.

He lifted his finger. He let rage do the talking. He snarled.

"What's _my_ problem?" He laughed, the sound a harsh parody of the usual jovial sound. "My problem is _you_."

He jabbed out his finger at the last word. Those three letters came back at him again and again. _You_. _You. You._ The sound petered out but the word lingered like a stink in the air. It could not be unspoken.

And Gordon couldn't help himself. He was hot and bothered. It was his _birthday_. John was an idiot. There was nothing he could do to stop the tirade. The dam was broken. The plug was pulled. In fact, no matter what crappy metaphor he chose to use, the outcome was the same.

The vitriol came pouring out.

"You are just so _arrogant_ ," Gordon said, jabbing his finger forward again. "You just don't care about anyone else. You're so stuck up in your own ivory tower that you expect the rest of us to jump at your whistle, to dance to your tune. You aren't even sorry that you made me wait. On my own _birthday_. You don't even think it's a problem. Well, you know what? I've had it with the attitude and I've had it with _you_!"

It happened again.

_You. You. You._

From the corner of his eye, Gordon saw votive candles flicker. In the Lady Chapel, the pearl white statue stared out at him. The mother. She looked almost...disappointed.

His attention returned to his brother as John stood up. He brushed down the front of his light jacket, then plucked up his rucksack. And without another world, he turned tail and left.

Gordon watched his retreating back. He turned his neck to watch John disappear down the side aisle. He watched him reach the door.

"John, wait!"

His voice was obnoxious in the serenity of the cathedral but Gordon didn't care. His footsteps were like explosions as he torn down the centre aisle. His paper bags shattered the silence. The scattering of churchgoers sent scathing glares his way.

John stopped at the grand doors but didn't turn around. He uttered one word - but it was enough.

"What?"

Gordon dropped his bags. Something crunched. His hands were shaking. Sweat trickled down his back.

"John, I'm sorry," he said, his voice now a deferent whisper. "I didn't mean what I said. It's just... It's this place. And I'm roasted alive. And I was just so angry and..." He dropped his chin to his chest. "I shouldn't have been so mad."

Still keeping his back to Gordon, John said nothing.

Then he turned. Gordon couldn't read his eyes. Then he spoke.

"Let's grab a coffee, my treat."

 

**~oOo~**

 

Gordon's eyes didn't stop boggling until they slipped into one of the window tables in the Orange Cafe.

By the time the skinny waiter had taken their order, Gordon had managed to find his voice.

"Why aren't you mad at me?" he asked.

John fiddled with the sugar packets. He pulled the bowl towards him and started sorting them into sections. White, brown and that low-cal plant stuff Grandma used to buy. Gordon watched him work, methodically rearranging the entire bowl.

It was only after the packets were sorted that John replied.

"You're right," he said, sliding the bowl back into its nook between the menu and the napkin dispenser. "I didn't sound apologetic and I should have. I -"

The conversation was halted as the waiter came back, dyed black hair gleaming blue in the sunlight. He deposited two coffees on the table - an extra shot Americano for John and a non-fat, non-sugar caramel latte for Gordon - and then disappeared again.

John pushed the tall mug and saucer across the table. Then he picked up the milk jug, poured the tiniest drop into his Americano and stirred. He cleared his throat. Then he spoke again.

“I am sorry, Gordon,” he said. “I was… I was caught up in my own head and I didn’t consider your feelings. You’re right. I was oblivious and I do that a lot.” He sighed and stirred the coffee, watching the liquid lighten by one or two shades. “I should have been more careful about the time. I’m sorry I wasn’t.”

Gordon lifted his mug and sipped the drink. When he set it back down again, he shook his head.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’d still be totally fine with you being mad at me, though.”

John sat back and laid one hand flat on the table. His green eyes flashed yellow in the sunlight.

“I don’t have anything to be mad about,” he said. Then he cast his gaze down. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking about other stuff too much to be angry.”

Gordon leaned forward, folding his arms on the table.

“Penny for them?” he asked. Then, realizing what he said, he hung his head for a moment. “Insert terrible Lady P joke here, I guess.”

“I don’t really do jokes,” John said. His voice was deadpan but there was a quirk at the side of his mouth. “Anyway, I don’t really want to talk about it. Not today, anyway.”

Gordon ran a fingertip around the edge of his mug and cocked his head to the side.

“You’re thinking about Mom, right?” he asked. When John raised one eyebrow, Gordon smiled. “It’s cool. We can talk about it.”

John looked out of the window. The smooth sweep of his pale jaw was painted with pale light.

“I dunno, Gordon,” he said. “When I was at the GDF facility, talking about security improvements and strategies for extra-terrestrial defense – which has nothing to do with aliens, before you ask,” he added.

Gordon clicked his fingers.

“Busted,” he said.

Shaking his head, John continued. The quirk was back at the side of his mouth.

“It just got me thinking about her,” he said. “I know Dad was based in space more than Mom ever was, but I couldn’t help but think how our lives would have been different if she hadn’t been shot out of orbit during the war.”

Nodding slowly, Gordon snagged the handle of the mug with two fingers. The ceramic was warm against his skin.

Where Jeff Tracy was the explorer, Lucille Tracy was the defender. At least, she had been until she was blasted out of orbit during the Global Conflict. Scott’s love of the skies hadn’t come from their father; it had come from their _mother_. One of the most decorated pilots in the US Air Force, long before the Global Defense Force had even been conceived, Lieutenant Lucille ‘Swoop’ Tracy had earned a reputation as a woman who got things done – before her squadron had been attacked in low orbit and she had been shot down over the Atlantic.

Gordon took a sip of his cooling coffee and licked the foam from his lips.

“I guess if she hadn’t been shot down, Alan and I might not have been born.” He chuckled, though the sound lacked mirth. “I don’t think she really intended to have any more after you and Virgil.”

“Maybe,” John said. He reached out to fiddle with the sugar packets again. “I know she didn’t want to leave the forces but I guess she didn’t have much choice.” He gave Gordon a wan smile. “Anyway, I got to thinking about her and it made me realise I hadn’t been to a church since her funeral. Then I ended up in St. Stephen’s and…” He spread out his hands. “The rest is as it is.”

Gordon nodded.

“The last time I was in a church was her funeral,” he said. “St. Patrick’s, wasn’t it? Back in Wichita?”

“Yeah,” John said.

Silence hung between them for a few minutes. Then John took a swig of his coffee before leaning down. He rummaged in his backpack and produced a neatly wrapped package. He slid it across the table.

“Here,” he said. “This is for you. I picked it up earlier.”

Gordon reached for the box and plucked it up. He brought it to his ear and shook it. No noise, though he hadn’t really expected it. Judging by the size and the weight – and the fact that this was _John_ – the present was clearly a book – a real paper one. _Expensive_.

“Can I open it?” he asked.

“It is your birthday present,” John said. “If not today, then when?”

Feeling the same sense of glee that he always did when unpicking the first taped edge, Gordon grinned. The smile felt natural again. It felt _normal_.

At first, he tried to extricate the book as carefully as possible, preserving as much of the bookstore-careful wrapping as he could. But frustration got the better of him and he ignored John’s mildly pained look as he tore the front of the wrapping in two.

And when he saw the cover, he grinned. Then he _laughed_. And the sound was the right one this time. It was _happy_. Because he had just been given a copy of Jacques Cousteau’s book, _Octopus and Squid, the Soft Intelligence_.

“Oh, man,” Gordon said, turning the book over and over. “Is this a _first edition_?”

John half-hid his smile behind his coffee cup.

“Yeah,” he said. “That book was published in 1973, so be careful with it.”

Gordon’s immediate instinct was to pretend to drop the tome. But he didn’t. Instead, he set the book down, stood up, and bent down to give his brother a hug.

John’s immediate instinct was to stiffen under the touch. But after a second, his shoulders relaxed and he brought a hand up to clap Gordon’s back.

“Happy Birthday, Squid,” he said.

Beaming as he released his brother, Gordon winked.

“Thanks, big bro.”


End file.
